He loathes that particular plot. If he has to keep her for a year—and apparently he does—then he will do it. He will spend the year the way prisoners do: marking off the days until it’s over. And then he will hand her back to her mother and resume the life he’s come to love: dabbling at art in a nonserious way, heading over to Paco’s once or twice a day for chips and cheese, reading the paper for hours on end, sitting on the couch watching television game shows with Roy on his lap and Bedford at his feet, taking Bedford out for long walks, baking pastries when it suits him, waiting for Marnie to come home from work so they can go up on the roof together and make a fire in the firepit, drink some wine, and then head off to bed. He is fortunate in that he doesn’t have to work; the settlement from the fire made sure of that. So in a very real way, he has earned—with his sorrow and his scars—this carefully curated way of life. And he intends to maintain it.

But in the meantime—well, it’s not great. He feels as though a hive of bees has moved into his head. Instead of watching Wheel of Fortune and Family Feud with Bedford and Roy, he is forced to ponder whether anteaters should be called eatanters. And whether he thinks there is another solar system where another Fritzie and Patrick are doing the exact same thing, only he is Fritzie on that planet, and she is Patrick. And how would that be, huh? And did he ever hear that he could turn into a girl if he kissed his own elbow?

Then one day he’s home and he’s just made lunch for Fritzie when the Pierpont Gallery phones him.

Would he like to have a gallery showing of his work in January?

Well, you see, he would not. God, no.

But it’s a fine, prestigious gallery, and Philip Pierpont himself is on the phone, doing the asking, in his cultured tones. He’s up-front about the request, too: there’s been a cancellation. Another artist was scheduled for the month, but something came up.

Of course, Patrick thinks. He wasn’t their first choice. Someone more famous and well-adjusted, someone without burns on his face was supposed to take the slot, but couldn’t—and all because a writer from Inside Outside magazine knows somebody who knows somebody who’s an admirer of Patrick’s past work, the gallery owner is wondering if perhaps Patrick has some work he could show.

Patrick says he needs to think about it. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to do this. After all, he doesn’t really have much work he could show. Any, really. But after he hangs up, there is Fritzie, sitting there at the table, swinging her legs and eating a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich with her mouth open, and she has a strand of marshmallow in her hair, and she’s saying, “Oh, you’re off the phone now. Wouldn’t it be funny if you had a whole bunch of kids you didn’t know about, not just me, and we all showed up at your house one day, and—”

“Fritzie,” he says. “Trust me. I don’t have any other kids.”

“Well, but you might. I mean, you didn’t know about me, so you might have some others, too. What if all the other moms showed up, and they said, ‘Here is your son, and here are your twins, and here is a little girl . . .’ Wouldn’t that be funny if you had, like, eight kids?”

He doesn’t let her see how much this thought makes him shudder. “There aren’t any more. Maybe you should go and wash that marshmallow out of your hair.”

Later, Marnie calls and he can’t seem to help himself: he tells her about the gallery. She thinks it’s a fantastic idea, just as he knew she would. She is all for forward motion, for progress, for life, for stretching oneself. For Getting Back Out There. She doesn’t even care that he was the second choice. “So what?” she says. “It’s an opportunity.” Marnie loves opportunities.

He says he’s not sure. “It’s going to mean I’ll be really busy, and, wellllllll, we do have Fritzie now . . .”

“It’s fine, Patrick. We’ll all pitch in to make it work. Even if you need to do a whole bunch of paintings, we can manage. She’ll be in school, and she can join me at the shop if there’s no after-school program she’d like . . .” She is off and running, just the way he knew she’d be. “And, if there’s going to be another baby, then it’ll be good for you to have your art career back in gear.”

Oh yes. The other baby.

That’s right; Marnie still hasn’t gotten her period. The doctor she called yesterday said she’d give her a blood test for pregnancy if it hasn’t come in another week. So . . . there’s that little bug of uncertainty buzzing about in his head, too. He’s kept swatting it away. He closes his eyes for a moment, feels the blackness pressing against his eyelids.

“Do it,” she says.

“January is not that far away. And so I’m immediately behind. For it to be worthwhile, I’ll need to get right to it.”

“Of course,” she says. “But I think it’s worth it. This is your chance to be in the art world again. You owe it to yourself.”

Later, Fritzie comes into his study and does three cartwheels before she plops herself down on the floor and stares at him.

“Hiiii, Patrick,” she says after a long moment of unrelenting eye contact.

“Hi.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m thinking. What are you doing?”

“I’m thinking, too. Are you thinking about whether you and Marnie are going to get married?”

“Not really.”

“Well, then, what are you thinking about?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Oh. Well. Do you want to know what I’m thinking about?”

“Yes.”

She laughs. “No, you don’t.”

“Okay, I don’t.”

She wiggles her toes and inspects the bottoms of her feet, which are filthy. She points that fact out to him, and he gets up and goes into the kitchen. But she follows him.

“One day my toenail fell off. Did you ever have your toenail fall off? And I thought—you want to know what I thought? I thought it was like baby teeth. That I had baby toenails and now I would get a grown-up toenail. But that’s not right.”

Oh God. He can’t take any talk about toenails. He did not know that toenail talk came with the fatherhood territory.

“Fritzie, I am actually trying to make a big decision right now, so maybe you could go and play with Bedford or something. I’m going back in my studio now.”

“Can I come in and paint?”

He looks over at her face. All shining and animated and all he can see is her mouth moving and moving and moving.

“If you can be quiet.”

He gets out the watercolors and sets her up in the corner with a pad of paper and a bowl of water, and he pulls a chair over to the table, and she slides into the seat without looking at him. “I’ll be very quiet, Patrick, and you can think.”

“Thank you,” he says. He looks at her as she dips her brush in the water and starts making bold strokes across the paper. How does she cope with the fact that her mother is just willing to walk away and leave her for such a long time? He tries to remember what his life was like when he was eight years old, and he can’t even imagine what he would have done if his mom had said she was checking out. His mom—she was the whole deal! She knew how everything in his life worked. She made it all happen.